


Head(lock) vs. Heart(lock)

by TaleasOldasTimeandSpace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babylock, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Sherlolly - Freeform, gratuitous abuse of sherlock's mind palace, grovelock, headlock, heartlock, is this a fic or just an excuse to write tags?, molly deserves all the groveling, spocklock - Freeform, the world may never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 19:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10225682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace/pseuds/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace
Summary: Just because they've both said it, doesn't mean they're immediately going to get married and have brilliant consulting pathologist babies, no matter what Sherlock thinks.Molly Hooper deserves groveling.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagicalStranger13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalStranger13/gifts).



> Based on a chat with [magically-strange](http://magically-strange.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and my own sadistic need to make Sherlock grovel before the awesomeness that is Molly Hooper.

Sherlock let his head fall against the headrest and closed his eyes with a sigh.  He’d never had a day that was quite so draining, not even during the two years he was dead.  Then again, he’d never discovered he had a secret, homicidal, psychopathic genius of a sister who threatened every single person he cared about and played havoc with the emotions he only barely admitted to having, either.  No wonder he felt drained.

Despite his protestations that he was perfectly all right, John had been carted off in the ambulance.  The paramedics were insistent that he get a proper check-up, to ensure there was no lasting damage from his soaking and the lacerations on his ankle from the chains.  John had agreed, after much eye-rolling and indignant huffs.  It made Sherlock feel almost well-behaved, which was a novel experience.

He was guilty relieved to have the car to himself.  He was incredibly grateful to John, of course, but John would want to _talk_ about everything that had happened, and Sherlock just wasn’t ready for that.  Especially not when he didn’t actually know _what_ to think about everything that had happened.  No, the time would much better be spent in his Mind Palace, coming to terms with the events of the day.

The first thing he did, of course, was to categorize and organize his newly reinstated childhood memories.  He restored Redbeard to his proper form, sorted through the new room containing everything relating to Eurus, and even took a turn through Mycroft’s room.  It was when he was leaving Mycroft’s room that he was confronted with his six-year-old self, complete with pirate hat and cutlass.  He crossed his arms and raised a brow.  ‘What are you doing here?’

The miniature pirate shrugged.  ‘I’m you.  I have as much right to be here as you do.’

‘That’s technically true.  But I’m here, so shouldn’t you be with our childhood memories?’

‘Nope,’ he said, popping the P.  The adult Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  Yes, his childhood memories were suspect, but he was sure he hadn’t started doing that until he was ten or so, when he’d discovered how irritating people found it.  They were right.  It was irritating.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m in charge of our emotions now.’

‘I thought Molly was—’  He cleared his throat.  ‘That is, why do we need to worry about that?  We both know sentiment is a chemical defect.  We’d be much better off focusing on logic.’

Young Sherlock rolled his eyes.  ‘We can do both, silly.  You can take care of logic, and I’ll take care of emotion.  Molly’s in charge of science, remember?’

Logic Sherlock’s cheeks went a little pink.  ‘Ah.  You’re correct.  I had forgotten.’

Emotion Sherlock squinted up at him.  ‘You’re not gonna go back to being stupid about Molly, are you?  Because I want to be with her.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’  Logic Sherlock stuffed his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff.  ‘Anyway, you saw what happened today.  Emotions are _clearly_ not our area.  All they do is hurt us, and her, too.’

Emotion Sherlock stomped his foot.  ‘I wanna be with Molly!  She’s nice, and pretty, and she likes me the way I am!  I l feel happy with her!’ 

Logic Sherlock hunched his shoulders.  ‘Alone is what protects us, you know that,’ he said defensively.

 Emotion Sherlock poked him in the chest with his cutlass.  ‘She wouldn’t let anyone hurt us!  I’m tired of doing things your way.  I’m tired of being alone!  I wanna marry Molly.  We can solve crimes together, and eat chips, and have lots of brilliant babies that’ll play with Rosie.’

‘Oh, come now,’ Logic Sherlock scoffed, batting the cutlass away and straightening his scarf.  ‘Marriage is an archaic institution that has no bearing in the modern world.  It’s simply an expression of sentiment in its most maudlin form—’

‘I WANNA MARRY MOLLY!’

‘You bellowed?’

Both Sherlocks turned to see Molly, in her striped jumper and lab coat, smiling at them from the end of the hall.  Logic Sherlock’s ears went pink to match his cheeks.  Emotion Sherlock grinned widely.  ‘Molly!’ he yelled, dropping his cutlass and running to her.  He threw his arms around her knees, which was about as high as he could reach.  ‘Mine!  Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!’ he chanted.

She laughed and scooped him up into her arms, kissing his plump cheek.

Logic Sherlock cleared his throat, desperately trying to calm his blush.  ‘Molly!  You’re looking, uh…’ _beautiful, wonderful, perfect, adorable_ ‘…well.’  He squeezed his eyes shut.  It was asking her for help with John’s stag night all over again.  Shouldn’t he be safe from this in his own Mind Palace?!

‘Don’t listen to him, Molly!  You look beautiful!  And wonderful, and perfect, and adorable, and I want to marry you!’

‘You’re pretty cute, yourself,’ she said, nuzzling him with her nose and making him giggle.

It was probably an effect of the Mind Palace, but steam was starting to drift out of Logic Sherlock’s ears.  ‘Now see here,’ he began.

Without warning, Emotion Sherlock morphed into Adult Sherlock, minus the coat and scarf.  His arms were wrapped around Molly, who looked quite comfortable.  He threw a smirk over his shoulder at Logic Sherlock, before dipping Molly and snogging her breathless.  Since neither one of them actually needed to breath, the kiss went one quite a long time.

Logic Sherlock exploded.

When they finally broke the kiss, Molly grinned up at Sherlock.  ‘You do realize that you need to go talk to Molly and fix things, because this,’ she waved a hand between the two of them, ‘isn’t real.’

Sherlock drooped a bit, then brightened.  ‘I’ll go to her flat and kiss her just like that!  She’ll understand.  Molly always understands.’

She shook her head, smiling.  ‘You know it won’t be that easy.  You’ve hurt her too many times, and that phone call was the last straw.’

He shrunk back down to his six-year-old self.  ‘I’m scared,’ he said, his voice small.  ‘What if she doesn’t forgive me this time?  What if she never wants to see me again?  What if she _leaves?’_

Molly knelt in front of him, removing his pirate hat to press a kiss to his curly head.  ‘It’ll be okay.  She might not forgive you right away, but she’s stronger than you.  Always has been.  You need to be strong for her now.’

* * *

 

Sherlock paced up and down the walk outside of Molly’s flat.  Every time he reached her door, he raised his hand to knock, only to pause, drop his hand, and turn in a whirl of coattails and resume his pacing.  He had a key to her flat, of course, but he refused to force his presence on her after the phone call.  Instead, he was making a conscious effort to respect her feelings, and was forcing himself to wait until he knew she was awake before knocking.  He already wished he could go back to pretending to be a sociopath.  Being considerate was _exhausting._

Finally, _finally_ he heard movement in her kitchen.  He knocked quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.  There was just enough time for to convince himself that this was a very bad idea, and they’d both be better off if he waited until they had time to heal when the door opened.  ‘Molly!’  Suddenly it seemed like there was no air, which was ridiculous since he was standing outside.

‘Sherlock.’  She crossed her arms.  ‘What do you want?’  She made no move to let him in, just stared at him flatly.

He swallowed.  ‘I, uh, I came to apologize, and to explain.  If you’ll let me, that is.’

She continued to stare at him, and he had to force himself not to fidget.  Finally, she inclined her head wordlessly and turned to shuffle into her living room, leaving him to follow.

Usually they would sit together on her couch when he came over, but this time she pointedly sat in her armchair, hugging one of the cushions.  He stood awkwardly in the middle of her living room, his mouth opening once, twice, each time closing again soundlessly.  With a groan, he dropped to his knees in front of her, making her jump.  ‘I’m sorry, Molly.  I am so, so sorry.’

She drew her knees up to her chest, making herself look even smaller than usual.  ‘Why, Sherlock?  Why did you do it?’

‘I was made to believe,’ he said slowly, ‘that you would be killed if I couldn’t get you to say it.’

‘So you were trying to save my life.’  She laughed bitterly.  ‘Well, thanks for that, I suppose.’  Cocking her head, she studied him with narrowed eyes.  ‘But you said you were “made to believe” I’d be killed.  It wasn’t true, was it?’

He shook his head.

She huffed a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.  ‘It’s like pulling teeth with you, isn’t it?  Just…tell me.  Everything.  Starting with the bomb at Baker Street.  I heard about _that_ from Meena, who saw it on the telly.  No one else bothered to tell me.’

So he did.  He told her everything about the events at Sherrinford and Musgrave, about Eurus and Redbeard and even Moriarty.  The only point where he skated over details what the immediate aftermath of their phone call.  That wasn’t something that she needed to deal with.  It was surprisingly cathartic, telling her about it all.  She tried hard to remain impassive through his recitation, but her naturally expressive face got the better of her on several occasions.  At some point—he wasn’t sure when—he’d started pacing as he talked. 

When he was done, he collapsed onto her couch.  The time spent in his Mind Palace had refreshed him somewhat, but now he was utterly drained.  He stared blankly at the taxidermy mouse on her mantelpiece for a long moment, waiting for her to speak.  When she didn’t, he hazarded a cautious glance at her.  She was frowning at the carpet.

‘Molly?  Molly, say something.’

Her gaze snapped to him, and he flinched in spite of himself.  ‘What do you want me to say, Sherlock?  “Yeah, you destroyed me, but that’s okay, you thought you were saving my life, so it’s all okay, and you can go back to swanning in and out of my life whenever you please?”’

‘What?  No, I—’

‘Because it’s really not okay, Sherlock.  I’m sorry your sister’s insane, and I’m sorry she murdered your childhood friend, and I’m sorry you’ve had a bad day.  But I had a bad day, too, and I didn’t ask to get pulled into your Holmes family mind games.’

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said quietly.  ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, Molly.  I never wanted to do that.’

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.  ‘I know.  But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.’

There wasn’t much he could say in response to that.  He clenched his fists, but the pain in his hands reminded him of things he didn’t want to think about.  Although…  ‘Why were you having a bad day?’ he asked hesitantly.

She blinked at him, startled, and he winced when he realized that his expressing concern for her wellbeing was a cause for surprise rather than a matter of course.

‘I… I was missing Mary.  We used to try to get together at least once a week, just for coffee, and yesterday was usually the day we could both make it.  And then I did an autopsy on a police constable—nothing like Mary, really, but she’d been shot protecting someone else, and I just…’  She swiped at her eyes.  ‘She was my friend too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said helplessly.  The words were frustratingly inadequate.

She nodded wordlessly and rested her chin on her knees.

He frowned at his hands.  He really should have gotten them treated, but he hadn’t wanted the paramedics fussing over him.  He’d managed to avoid their attention by keeping his hands in his pockets, and everyone was distracted by John and Eurus, anyway.  Now he was rethinking the wisdom of that decision.  His hands were bruised and swollen and covered in scabbed-over cuts, some of them with splinters still embedded in them.  It would be some time before he could play the violin again, not that he had a violin to play at the moment.

Well, except for the Stradivarius from Eurus, of course.  But that was still at Sherrinford, anyway.

‘Sherlock?’  He looked up immediately at Molly’s voice.  ‘What on earth did you do to your hands?’  She unfolded herself from her chair to kneel in front of him, frowning as she studied the damage.

‘It’s nothing.’

She glared at him.  ‘This is not nothing, Sherlock!  What did you do, break down a door with your bare hands?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You should have gotten them treated ages ago.’  She got to her feet and stalked out of the room, returning shortly with her first-aid kit.  He stared at her as she meticulously cleaned his hands, removing splinters and gently applying medicine and bandages.  How could she treat him so selflessly after what he’d done to her?  What he was constantly doing to her?  She was the most incredible person he’d ever known.

‘I love you.’

Her eyes shot to his, and he realized he’d said that out loud.  He didn’t regret it.

She bit her lip, dropping her gaze back to his hands.  ‘I know.’  She put the final bandage on, closed the kit, and went to put it away, leaving him gaping on her couch.

‘You _know_?’ he demanded when she came back.

She smiled briefly as she curled up in the armchair again.  ‘You’ve said many things over the years, many of them quite unkind, but you’ve never actually lied to me.  Are you going to be staying with John and Rosie while Baker Street is being repaired?’

He blinked rapidly, sure he’d missed something.  ‘Yes, I assume so.  Um, don’t you want to talk about it?’

She cocked her head.  ‘You kipping with John?  I didn’t think that was something that needed my input.’

‘No, not _that._   The…other thing.’

‘You’re going to have to be more specific.’  There was the barest hint of a smirk on her face.

He narrowed his eyes.  ‘Fine.  Don’t you want to talk about the fact that _I love you?’_

‘Oh!  No, I don’t think so.  Not today, anyway.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’  She got to her feet again, and this time he followed suit.  ‘We’ve both had a hard couple of days, and you’re in no condition to have that sort of discussion.  In fact, I think it’s probably time for you to go to John’s.  You look knackered.’

Without him quite understanding how she managed it, she was ushering him outside.  He caught the door before she could shut it in his face.  ‘Shouldn’t we at least… _kiss?’_

She laughed.  _Laughed._   ‘Oh, Sherlock.’  She reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek.  His eyelids fluttered at the contact.  ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to be that easy.’  And with that she shut the door, leaving him standing on her doorstep, trying to figure out just what had happened.

Somewhere in his Mind Palace, Mary Watson was cackling.

* * *

 

 _‘What_ was _that?’_

After Molly had ever-so-sweetly kicked him out, Sherlock had immediately gone to John’s flat, let himself in, and flopped onto the sofa with an indignant huff.  Now he was back in his Mind Palace, glaring at Molly as she and an insufferably amused Mary Watson had coffee.

Molly smiled and took a sip.  ‘I told you it wasn’t going to be easy,’ she said serenely.

Across from her, Mary snorted.  ‘Actually, it went a lot better than I was expecting.  If it was me, I probably would have shot you.’

He waved a hand and started pacing.  ‘Yes, well, _you’re_ not in love with me.  Besides, Molly’s nicer than you.’

‘He’s got a point there.’  Mary saluted Molly with her mug.

‘Naturally.’  Molly shrugged modestly.  ‘I’m the nicest person he knows.  Granted, that’s not saying an awful lot, but still.’

‘I’m glad you both find this so amusing—’

‘Yes, we really do,’ said Mary dryly.  Molly giggled.

‘—but this _really_ isn’t helping.’

‘What did you expect?’ asked Molly.  ‘You’d tell her you love her and she’d fall into your arms, deliriously happy because you’d _finally_ decided to grow up and stop pulling her pigtails?’

‘Yes?’

Mary shook her head.  ‘Look at the poor child.  So young.  So naive.’

Molly nodded.  ‘It’s like watching a baby giraffe try to walk for the first time.’

Sherlock crossed his arms.  ‘You’re a lot less sarcastic in real life,’ he said petulantly.

‘Oh, please.  We all know that’s not true.  And we all know you like it.’

He decided to ignore that.  ‘But what do I _do?_   How do I get her to forgive me?’

‘Grovel, young padawan.’

‘Young what?’

‘Don’t give me that.  We’re in your Mind Palace, so obviously you know what I’m talking about.  And don’t try to change the subject.  Grovel.’

Mary grinned manically.  ‘Oh, yes!  I agree.  Lots and lots of groveling.’

Molly pointed a stern finger at him.  _‘Sincere_ groveling, not your usual “I’ll say what I have to in order to get what I want” brand of codswallop.’

‘Excellent point.’  Mary bobbed her head.  ‘Bring her coffee, give her compliments, tell her how much she means to you and how much you appreciate her.  And do _not_ try and get her to give you body parts.’

‘Let her make her own deductions about her patients,’ Molly continued, ‘and only give your input if she _asks._   You know she’s almost as observant as you are—sometimes more so—and you know she doesn’t like it when you talk over her findings.’

‘I haven’t done that since before the Fall,’ he protested.

Molly sniffed, unimpressed.  ‘Offer to help her, for a change.  She’s got her own job, and assisting you with your experiments isn’t the special treat you seem to think it is.’

He pulled out a chair and flung himself into it with a groan.  ‘Loving someone you can’t have is _awful.’_

Mary rolled her eyes.  ‘Molly’s loved you without any expectations for _years,_ you ridiculous man.  You can’t even handle one day?’

Molly grinned.  ‘I told you she was stronger than you.’

‘I miss being a sociopath.’

‘No, you don’t.  Now, are you going keep sulking on John’s couch, or are you going to grovel like a man?’

He sighed.  ‘Grovel,’ he muttered.

Mary made a show of wiping her eyes.  ‘They grow up so fast.’

* * *

 

It was a long, frustrating week before Sherlock was able to see Molly again.  It wasn’t that he was avoiding her—if anything, he suspected _she_ was avoiding _him_ —but between beginning repairs to Baker Street, supporting Mycroft as he informed their parents of Eurus’ continued existence, and trying to figure out how best to reach her, he had precious little time left over to devote to Molly.  He texted her often, trying to compose messages that would make her smile.  Sometimes she’d reply, and once or twice she’d even initiated the conversation.  But it wasn’t the same as being with her.

Now, however, he was practically skipping down the hallway towards the morgue.  Lestrade had asked him to come look at a body, so not only was there a case, he’d get to see Molly.  It was Christmas!

He pushed the doors open with a bang, careful not to spill the coffees he held in either hand.  ‘Molly!’

She poked her head around the corner.  ‘Hi, Sherlock.  Greg told me you’d be coming down.  I think you’ll like this one!’

‘Not as much as I like you, I’m sure.  Coffee?’ he said, holding out one of the cups.

‘Oh, lovely.  Thanks!’  She took a sip, blithely ignoring his attempt at flirting and gesturing him to follow as she did.  ‘Come have a look at Mr. Greene here.  I don’t want to spoil it for you.’

On the slab was the body of a blonde man in his thirties.  He was handsome, in a rather generic way, but would have been supremely uninteresting if not for the sword stuck clean through his chest and propping his torso up slightly.  Sherlock blinked, then turned to Molly, who was trying to hide her smile behind her coffee.  ‘That’s not something you see every day.’

‘I _know._   Isn’t it brilliant?’  She rocked a little on her heels as she grinned at him.  ‘I mean, not for Mr. Greene, obviously, but it was nice of him to die in such a dramatic fashion.  I never thought I’d get to do the autopsy of a man killed with a sword, of all things.  Though I really should have expected it after you started hanging around.’

He laughed at her infectious enthusiasm.  Given that everything she’d said echoed his thoughts on seeing the body, it was probably highly inappropriate enthusiasm, but it was nice to be able to get excited about an interesting murder without John or Lestrade making disapproving noises in the background.  ‘I assume the blade is caught on bone?’

‘That’s right.  They tried removing it at the scene, but it’s rather stuck, and they didn’t want to risk damaging the body before I could take a look.  Greg said he was found at home, with the door locked from the inside.  The window to his fire escape was open, so the police think it might be a robbery gone wrong—that someone came in through the window and killed him with his own sword.’  She watched him expectantly, clearly waiting for his deductions.  He was happy to oblige.

‘Well, _that’s_ obviously ridiculous.  There are no defensive wounds whatsoever.  If a man is attacked in his own home by a sword-wielding assailant, he would put up _some_ kind of fight, even when he’s as indolent as our friend here.  And since the sword entered his chest from the front, it’s unlikely he was taken by surprise.  Anyway, it’s not even his sword.’

She cocked her head.  ‘How do you figure that?’

He gestured to the man’s hands.  ‘No calluses.  Clearly not the hands of a swordfighter, and the sword itself has seen extensive use.  You can tell by the wear on the blade and the grip.’

‘He could have bought it secondhand,’ she offered.  ‘You know, like a collector’s item.’

He shook his head.  ‘It’s a nice sword, but not nice enough or old enough to be a collector’s item.  And you can tell by his clothes and the frankly unnecessary amount of product in his hair that he’s never bought a secondhand item in his life.  Besides, the sword’s been well cared-for, and recently.  The blade isn’t sharp, so I’d say it belongs to someone who does stage fighting or belongs to some kind of reenactment group.’

‘I told Greg that it didn’t look like a robbery, but I didn’t know about the sword.  I guess somebody could have climbed the fire escape with it, though I can’t imagine they could do that without being seen.  Or why they’d want to in the first place.’  She set her coffee on the counter and began pulling on gloves.  ‘If you’re done, I’m ready to start the autopsy.’  Waving to the sword, she added, ‘Would you care to do the honours?’

‘Absolutely!’  He quickly shed his coat and scarf, pulled on the pair of gloves she handed him, and wrapped his hands around the hilt of the sword, his grin slightly manic.  It took a little work, but he managed to pull the sword out without causing more damage to the body.  He couldn’t help hefting it a little, moving it carefully through different positions to get a feel for its balance.  It really was a nice sword.

‘Does this make you the king of England?’ Molly asked dryly.

He snorted.  ‘Please, no.  I’ll leave that to Mycroft.’  Setting the blade to the side, he pulled off the gloves and leaned against the counter to watch her work.

She laughed as she began preparing the body for the autopsy.  ‘Probably wise.  I’ve missed this,’ she added quietly.

He cocked his head.  ‘What?’

‘Oh, just,’ she waved a vague hand—which just happened to be holding a scalpel, ‘deductions, solving crime, you know.  We haven’t had a proper case in ages, not since—well.’  She cut herself off and shrugged.  It’s nice.’

A strange, tickling warmth spread through his chest as he contemplated the quiet, cheerful, slightly morbid wonder of a human being that was Molly Hooper.  She was, quite simply, perfect, and he hated that it had taken a threat on her life to make him admit it.

‘What?’ she asked, a small smile on her face.  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Like what?’ he asked innocently.  He could only imagine the expression on his face, but he was curious to see if she would address it directly.  In his pocket, his phone started buzzing insistently.  He ignored it.  It was probably Lestrade about the case, and anything Lestrade had to say would take him away from Molly.  He didn’t _want_ to be taken away from Molly.

‘Like, I don’t know.’  She winkled her nose.  It was almost unbearably cute.  ‘Your face has gone all soft and you look almost…happy.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy, not really.’

‘I am happy.’

‘Well, that’s good.  I’m glad.’

 _‘You_ make me happy, Molly Hooper.’

She bit her lip.  ‘Sherlock…’  Her phone started ringing.

‘Don’t answer it.’  His voice dropped an octave, quite involuntarily.

‘It’s probably Greg about the case.’  She stripped off her gloves and fished the phone out of her pocket.

‘Of course, it’s Greg about the case.  That’s why you shouldn’t answer it.’

She rolled her eyes and answered the phone.  ‘Hi, Greg.  Yes, he’s here.  I don’t know why he’s not answering, you’ll have to ask him yourself.’  She raised her brow.  Sherlock shrugged.  ‘Uh-huh.  Really?  That’s interesting.  Yeah, okay, I’ll send him over.  Bye!’  She hung up and stuck the phone back in her pocket.  ‘They brought in two suspects, Mr. Greene’s ex and her new boyfriend.  Their alibis fell through, and now they’re each claiming the other is innocent.  Greg wants you to go over and see if you can get the truth out of them.’

‘Oh, fine.’  Sherlock sulkily pulled on his scarf and coat.  ‘Text me if you find anything new?’

Molly crossed her arms.  ‘Will you actually answer?’

‘Unlike _some_ people,’ he said over his shoulder as he started for the door, ’I always answer my phone.’

‘Sherlock, I just saw you ignore Greg.’

He glanced back at her.  ‘I always answer when it’s _you.’_

The blush on her face almost made leaving worth it.  Almost.

* * *

 

The suspects were…interesting, to say the least.  The ex-girlfriend, Marianne Woods, was a woman in her late twenties, with a messy brunette pixie cut, several piercings, and rather excessive—in Sherlock’s considered opinion—dark purple eyeshadow.  She was studying the newly-promoted DI Donovan with an expression of wary belligerence.  The new boyfriend, Bogart 'Bog' King, was a tall scarecrow of a man with a beaky nose that made Mycroft’s look positively snub.  His dark red hair was wild, his cheekbones sharp, and he had a mouthful of crooked teeth he was currently baring in a feral grin at Lestrade, who sat across from him in the interview room.

She was American, he was Scottish, and Sherlock could tell Donovan and Lestrade thought that said all they needed to know about both suspects.

‘Look.’  Woods leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.  ‘I’ve already confessed.  Aren’t you going to arrest me or something?  That’s usually how this works, isn’t it?’

‘Care to tell me why you changed your story?’

‘You caught me.  No point in trying to fool you anymore.  I killed Roland.’

‘With a sword.’  Donovan looked unconvinced.

‘Hey, guns are practically illegal around here, aren’t they?  Besides, swords are cool.  If you’re going to kill someone, you might as well do it with style.  Not that Roland deserves that kind of consideration.  He _did_ deserve to get stabbed.’

‘What gives you the right to end a man’s life?’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s a _right,_ exactly.  But listen—Roland was a miserable human being without any redeeming features whatsoever, except maybe his hair, and even that wasn’t nearly as good as he thought it was.  He cheated on me, and when I dumped his sorry carcass, he refused to accept that it was over, and started stalking me and spreading lies about me.  When I started dating Bog, Roland started harassing him, too.’  She sighed, suddenly looking tired.  ‘I just wanted it to stop.’

In the other room, Lestrade was getting a similar story from the scarecrow.  ‘Roland was a wee louse.  He was making Marianne’s life miserable, and it was only a matter of time before he got violent.’

Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face.  ‘So you climbed up his fire escape with a sword?’

 ‘Marianne likes to claim I’m a drama queen.’  King shrugged.  ‘She does know me well.’ 

They were both lying.  Sherlock knew it, Lestrade knew it, even Donovan knew it.  He narrowed his eyes, gaze flicking between the suspects, studying their respective builds.  Pulling out his phone, he shot a text to the detectives.

Lestrade glanced at his phone, then up to King.  ‘We have reason to believe the sword used to kill Mr. Greene belongs to you, Mr. King.’

Surprise, confusion, and relief flickered over King’s face, and he relaxed infinitesimally.  ‘Well, of _course_ it’s my sword.  Why would I kill him with somebody else’s sword?’

‘Not too bright,’ Lestrade pointed out.

‘I’m dramatic, not a rocket scientist.’

Donovan was getting a slightly different reaction from Woods.  She was surprised, as well, but instead of relief, she tensed with confusion and fear.  ‘Bog and I, we belong to the same LARP and reenactment groups.  Sometimes he leaves his weapons at my place, depending on who drove to the event.  I just grabbed what was handy—I wasn’t really thinking clearly.’

Sherlock frowned.  He was missing something and he couldn’t determine what it was.

His phone pinged with a message from Molly.  In the interview rooms, both Lestrade and Donovan received similar messages.

_Wound was self-inflicted.  –Molly_

Of _course._   Sherlock quickly sent a text of his own.  _Woods and King stupid but innocent.  Greene also stupid.  Tried to frame King for assault, possibly attempted murder.  Check cameras around Woods and King’s flats; should find Greene with sword.  –SH_

He sent a separate message to Molly.  _Got your text.  Thank you.  –SH_

He left Lestrade and Donovan to deal with the couple’s ill-advised attempt to fall on their swords for each other and took the opportunity to return to Molly.  His phone pinged again.

_So you DO answer your phone. ;)  –Molly_

_I told you—I always answer when it’s you.  On my way back to the morgue.  –SH_

_I’m almost done with Mr. Greene.  There’s no one else here as interesting, I’m afraid.  –Molly_

_You’re there.  –SH_

* * *

 

Sherlock was quite content to spend the rest of the day in the lab with Molly, watching her work and occasionally assisting her with tests.  She was a little dubious at first, but slowly relaxed, chatting about autopsies she’d done over the week and asking after the Baker Street repairs.  She even got him to tell her more about Eurus and Sherrinford, and seemed almost proud of him when he told her his plan to try to reach his sister.  It was all very quiet, but Sherlock couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so…peaceful.

Suddenly, Molly’s lips twitched.

‘What?’  He looked up from the slide he’d been pretending to examine.  He was at a loss to understand how he used to get any work done in her distractingly adorable presence.

‘I just realized—your sister is a homicidal psychopath.’

‘Yeees?’  He wasn’t sure where this was going, but it was a relief that she seemed to be able to find humour in the situation.  It was more than he was able to do yet.

‘So you have no business saying anything about my dating Jim Moriarty ever again.’

He opened his mouth, frowned, and nodded.  ‘Fair enough.’

She beamed at him and passed him another slide.  ‘Try this one.  It actually has a sample on it.’

Microscopes were frustratingly inadequate when it came to hiding blushes.

* * *

 

Two weeks after the sword incident, Sherlock threw the lab doors open with his usual flair.  ‘Molly!  You’re looking lovely today!’

Molly snorted.  ‘Sherlock, it’s the end of a ten-hour shift.  I’ve done four autopsies today, I’m covered in blood, I smell like death, my hair’s a mess, and I’m not wearing makeup.  I do _not_ look lovely.’

‘You’re Molly.  You _always_ look lovely.’

She eyed him suspiciously.  ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but you can’t have any body parts.’

‘I don’t _want_ body parts.  I just wanted to spend time with you.’

‘Well _I_ just want to get the lab cleaned up so I can go home and eat takeaway in my pyjamas in front of the telly.  You can stay if you want, but try not to get in the way.’

He parked himself in a corner of the lab and watched as she bustled around, restoring the already-clean lab to her usual pristine standards.  It was wonderful that she’d forgiven him enough to let him be around her, of course, but it was frustrating how little progress he’d made in convincing her that they could be more.  All his attempts at flirting were met with a neat side-step and a subject change.  If he was lucky, he’d get a blush, but she remained stubborn in her refusal to acknowledge the change in his feelings.  In his Mind Palace, Mary shook her head.  _You are_ weak, _Sherlock Holmes._  

‘I liked it better when we were snogging in my Mind Palace,’ he muttered dejectedly.

There was a clatter as Molly dropped a box of gloves.  _‘What_ did you say?’

He hadn’t realized he’d said that loud enough for her to hear.  His first instinct was to play it off, but it was the truth.  ‘I said, “I liked it better when we were snogging in my Mind Palace.”’  It might have come out slightly defiant, but he was tired of her ignoring his declaration of love.

 _Weak,_ Mary repeated.

Molly was staring at him, unblinking, and he was starting to wonder if he’d finally managed to break her.

‘You…’  She cleared her throat.  ‘You imagine us…kissing?’

‘Yup.’  He grinned.  ‘It’s quite enjoyable.’

‘Huh.’  She picked up the box she’d dropped and left the room.  He slumped dejectedly.  Maybe she didn’t really love him anymore, at least not enough to want to be with him.  Maybe she _did_ still love him, but didn’t think being with him was worth the pain he’d caused her over the years.  Maybe—

‘Sherlock?’

He barely had time to look up before she grabbed him by his collar and pulled him down into a kiss.  It took him four seconds to register what was happening, and then he snaked one arm around her waist and threaded the fingers of his other hand through her hair, loosening her ponytail as he did.  He tilted his head, allowing her better access to deepen the kiss.  She responded eagerly, going up on her toes and sliding a hand over his shoulder and into his hair.  All he could think about was Molly’s lips, Molly’s hair, Molly’s fingers in his hair, Molly, Molly, Molly…

Too soon, she pulled away, dropping back down on her heels.  He tried to follow, but she pushed him back with the hand resting over his racing heart.  His eyes drifted open to see Molly grinning up at him, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. 

‘So,’ she drawled, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck, ‘how did that compare to your Mind Palace?’

‘I…’  His voice came out ragged, and he cleared his throat.  ‘I believe reality is _far_ superior.’

‘Right answer.’  She patted his chest before gliding her hand up to join the other one at his neck.  ‘Now, I think you have something you’ve been trying to tell me?’

It only took a second to catch her meaning.  ‘I do.’  He spoke the next words slowly, punctuating them with a light kiss on her lips and changing the angle of his head between each one.  ‘I.' _kiss_  'love.' _kiss_  'you.' _kiss_  'Molly.' _kiss_  'Hooper.’ _kiss._   As he pulled back slowly, he had the satisfaction of seeing her swallow hard as her eyelids fluttered open. 

‘That’s good,’ she said breathlessly.  ‘Because I will always love you, Sherlock Holmes.’  He could feel himself smiling so widely his cheeks hurt.  She laughed and pulled him down to kiss his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock joined Molly for the takaway and telly, though there was less telly and more snogging on the couch. Neither seemed to mind.
> 
> A few days later, Molly got an unmarked delivery containing a flash drive with footage of Sherlock destroying the coffin. She slapped his arm for not telling her, then snogged him silly for being so emotional over her. He wore a goofy smile for the rest of the day, and was completely impervious to John and Lestrade's smirks.
> 
> Mary Waston is the Voice of Sherlock's Conscience and no one can tell me otherwise.
> 
> Some of you might have recognized the case as shamelessly ripped off the movie Strange Magic. For those of you unfamiliar with it, it is a gloriously trashy fairytale rock opera and I highly recommend it. This was my first attempt to write a case of any sort, and it was mostly for my own twisted amusement, so I apologize if the details are sketchy. I now know more than I ever thought I would about swords.
> 
> This is probably going to be my last series 4-compliant fic, since there's only so many ways I can write Sherlock telling Molly about Sherrinford without it becoming repetitive. Besides, I'd much rather write AUs where Mary's alive.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://taleasoldastime-andspace.tumblr.com/search/quote)!


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